Just InCommunityForumMoreThe Shattering by wulfenheim Warhammer & Invincible Xover Rated: M, English, Words: 152k+, Favs: 724, Follows: 822, Published: Dec 14, 2023 Updated: Apr 20 223Chapter 46
Dorn stood at the command dais, his eyes scanning the hololithic display that flickered with streams of data and tactical overlays. The battle unfolding before him was unlike any he had faced in his long years of service. The enemy fleet, smaller in size and numbers, moved with an eerie synchronicity that defied the traditional tactics of naval warfare. Each of their ships, sleek and sharp like the blades of some ancient duelist, cut through the void with a swiftness and fluidity that made the lumbering vessels of the Imperium look like relics of a bygone age.
The reports came in waves, a cacophony of vox transmissions, auspex readings, and damage assessments. Aboard the Eternal Crusader, the Capital Ship of the Imperial Fists, Dorn's officers struggled to make sense of the chaos. The captains of his fleet barked orders and adjusted firing solutions, but it was clear to Dorn that something was fundamentally wrong. His keen, tactical mind saw patterns where others saw only confusion. The enemy vessels, armed with strange hard-light weapons and enveloped in arcane kinetic shields that slowed incoming projectiles to a crawl, danced through the Imperium's barrages with contemptuous ease. Their small, agile forms weaved between volleys of plasma and laser fire, rendering the superior firepower of the Imperium's guns effectively useless.
It was becoming painfully obvious that the enemy's technological superiority extended far beyond their advanced weapons and near-impenetrable shields. The way they moved, the way they fought - it wasn't just the result of superior design but of something far more alien to the Imperium's sensibilities. Dorn observed how the enemy frigates and corvettes maneuvered with flawless precision, coordinating their attacks and evasions in perfect harmony, adjusting their formations in real-time to counter any shift in the battle.
At first glance, many of his subordinate captains had assumed they were facing a fleet of highly trained veterans, each pilot a master of their craft. But Dorn saw something else. There was no human touch behind the maneuvers, no signs of the calculated risk-taking or split-second improvisation that even the best fleet commanders displayed in the heat of battle. No, this was something mechanical, something synthetic.
Dorn's suspicions crystallized as he analyzed the data. These were not merely well-drilled crews; these ships were being piloted by some form of Virtual Intelligence, perhaps even an advanced machine-logic far beyond anything the Mechanicus would ever sanction. They were linked, their every move synchronized in a hive-mind-like network that allowed them to act with one purpose, one mind, faster than any human could hope to match. Each smaller vessel was a piece of a larger whole, coordinating flawlessly to execute complex maneuvers that would be impossible for human crews under the best of circumstances.
Yet among the swarming, coordinated attackers, one ship stood out - the largest in the enemy fleet, distinct in both size and behavior. It moved with purpose but not precision, with strategy but not the cold, unerring efficiency of the smaller vessels. It maneuvered like a predator directing its pack, issuing orders through invisible threads of command that linked it to the rest of the fleet. Dorn knew instantly that this ship, and whoever or whatever commanded it, was the key to the entire engagement.
"If I had to place my bets," Dorn murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper amid the constant din of the command deck. He also hated the idea of gambling, but he knew and saw its necessity in war. "-that's where their commander is."
Unfortunately, its size didn't seem to slow it down in the slightest.
The strategic implications were immediate and alarming. This wasn't an enemy bound by the limitations of human crews or traditional naval doctrine. Dorn's fleet, powerful and resilient though it was, had been designed to face foes of flesh and blood, adversaries who thought and reacted like men. The Imperium's ships were massive, their weapons designed to obliterate fortresses and crush armadas in broadside duels. They were engines of war, built to withstand and deliver punishment. But in this battle, size and strength were no longer the deciding factors. Speed and precision reigned supreme.
Dorn's mind raced through tactical solutions, evaluating the strengths and weaknesses of his fleet against the unconventional foe. His vessels had the firepower to destroy the enemy, that much was certain. He had already seen their shells pierce the enemy's arcane kinetic-based shielding, and their lance strikes scorching and melting through the hulls of their opponents. But what did that matter when they could scarcely land a hit? His ships were too slow, their movements ponderous and predictable, their guns powerful but designed to target ships that moved like his own. Against an enemy that darted and danced as if the void were merely another battlefield, they were little more than static targets.
The battle reports confirmed Dorn's fears. The damage to the enemy was minimal, while his own ships suffered steadily from a relentless barrage of hard-light fire. No single strike had proved catastrophic, but the cumulative effect was beginning to tell. Shields were failing, hull breaches were multiplying, and morale among the more inexperienced captains was starting to waver. This wasn't a war of attrition they could win; it was a test of adaptability, and one they were failing, because the enemy was adapting faster than them.
Dorn's brow furrowed as he studied the tactical display, noting every minor movement, every exchange of fire. He had seen enough to understand the threat before him.
"This… is troubling," he said, his voice carrying a note of grim resolve, but also a faint amusement, one that none but his closest brothers and sons would've caught. "The other legions will find it difficult to adapt against such an enemy."
The truth was clear: the Imperium's forces were outmatched in every conceivable way. Their only advantage lay in sheer numbers and raw firepower, but even that would not be enough unless they adapted - and quickly. Dorn had faced impossible odds before, had turned back the tides of darkness with sheer will and strategic genius. But this was a new kind of war, one that would require new tactics, new thinking. The question now was whether he could find a way to outthink an enemy that, in many ways, didn't think at all.
And then, just as the enemy feigned a retreat and his mind finally found something of an idea as to how to best deal with them, two hundred more enemy vessels appeared just outside the system.
Dorn's eyes narrowed and a faint smile graced his lips.
This was exactly what he predicted would happen. Not in this manner, of course, as his and Sanguinius' fleet had taken on far more damage than he'd care to admit, but the course of the battle went generally as expected. He turned on the communicator and established a link with Rus's fleet. "It's time."
"My lord," One of his officers suddenly approached. "We've received a message of parlay from the enemy. Their leaders wish to talk."
This... was not a good idea.
This was, in fact, a bad idea.
But such things, Argall mused, were to be expected in democratic governments.
For some reason that neither he nor Jadan could quite fathom, a majority vote was decided by the Supreme Hyperborean Council to try and establish some kind of diplomatic channel with this Imperium of Mankind before fully committing to all-out war, which was exactly the sort of thing Argall was trying to avoid as doing so would divide the focus of his people. And, based on the evidence he'd, thus far, gathered, the Imperium did not at all seem like the sort of people to make concessions. Join willingly or be conquered. That was how they operated. The differing Primarchs might have their own unique methods of how they went about doing that, but it all ended the same way, each time.
That said, because Argall himself paved the way for the creation of a democratic government, denying them their authority just because he could would undermine the very fabric upon which his society was built upon. He gave them power to wield and exercise, because he did not want to be the one running things. He was their defender, their protector, their greatest sword and shield. But, that also meant that he had to let them make decisions of their own, even if said decisions were contrary to what he wanted or believed was right.
And, unless they royally screwed up, then Argall saw no reason to intervene. Initiating parlay with foreign human empires was not yet there, but it was close. And so Argall had no choice but to acquiesce.
He turned to Jadan and shrugged. "Hey, think of it this way: when it fails, we can always just jump out of the system and leave the Imperials there. It's not ideal, but it's an option."
"It's a terrible option," Jadan practically seethed, crossing her arms over her chest as they waited for the elevator to reach the council chambers. "We have them by the balls and they choose to be diplomatic now?"
Argall raised a brow, but otherwise kept his silence. He agreed, however, despite some trepidation as to just what exactly the Imperials were planning. He knew that they knew that it was a trap and they went in, regardless. And that meant there had to be a plan in motion, something he'd not caught or seen. The elevator doors opened, revealing the Chamber of the Supreme Council on the other side.
As Argall and Jadan stepped out of the elevator into the Chamber of the Supreme Council, the hum of tense conversation filled the air. The chamber itself was massive, its ceiling high and domed, with walls made of shimmering alloy that reflected the soft glow of data feeds and holographic projections. Seated around the council table were the leaders of the Hyperborean Collective, each representing their respective sectors and factions, but all eyes turned to Argall as he entered.
At the center of the room, a large hololithic display floated, depicting the surrounding star system and the delicate dance of fleets. Dozens of Hyperborean vessels, sleek and deadly, now encircled the Imperium's armada. The centerpiece of it all was The Fist of Thragg, the colossal dreadnought that dwarfed even the largest of the Imperial ships. Its hull gleamed with the concentrated steel unique to Hyperborean craft, and its weapon systems, powered by micro-fusion cells, pulsed with a barely restrained energy.
Argall couldn't help but let his gaze linger on The Fist. Named after his father, the most powerful weapon in the Hyperborean Collective's arsenal was now fully mobilized, a symbol of their might. Its mere presence was a declaration of strength. But Argall felt an odd sense of irony in this moment. A massive warship, built for destruction, had now been brought to the forefront of a diplomatic negotiation.
It was unfortunate that no one really knew the man behind the name. The few friends his father had made were all dead, taken by old age. And, even if they were alive, they wouldn't understand why Argall named it after his father to begin with. Syreen didn't care otherwise. His sister was actually in the ship, somewhere, upon her hover chair. Argall had granted her access to just about anywhere that she was physically capable of visiting. As far as he was aware, his sister spent quite a lot of her time in the armory, looking over the latest weapons and armors, a remnant behavior from when she was a Scrapper.
Scrappers... Argall had thought of, several times, bringing back that forgotten profession, an independent arm of the Hyperborean military, dedicated to exploring the vastness of the cosmos.
Jadan shot him a look, her expression still dark.
"This is madness, Argall," she said under her breath, her voice a low hiss. By Argall's count, this must've been the fifth time she brought up this specific subject in the last two hours. Though, he understood why. "We should be preparing for battle, not asking for parlay."
Argall sighed. "You know as well as I do that, unless in the most extreme of circumstances, I am not going to undermine the decisions of the Supreme Council."
"Doesn't mean we can't disapprove," Jadan muttered.
The head of the Council, a tall man with silver-streaked hair, cleared his throat and addressed the room. "We've surrounded the Imperium's fleet. They've yet to make any aggressive moves, though they've been warned. We've sent out the message requesting parlay. If they accept, we will hear them out before proceeding to any further action."
It was hard to discern which ship was the flagship as their vessels were all hideously gaudy and annoyingly large. So, the broadcast was sent to every single Imperial Vessel.
Then, the transmission came through. The room quieted as the voice of an Imperial officer crackled over the speakers. "The Imperium acknowledges your request for parlay. A representative has been chosen."
The words were formal, almost robotic, but they carried the weight of an empire. Argall watched as the hololithic display shifted, showing the distant bridge of the Imperial flagship. There, standing tall and resplendent in golden armor, was a figure Argall almost immediately recognized – somehow, even if he'd never seen said figure before. He'd certainly never met a winged human being. The physics of it boggled his mind for a moment, before his thoughts returned to what truly mattered.
Standing there was a Primarch, like himself, one of twenty.
Sanguinius' eyes widened and Argall knew that they both saw each other.
AN: Chapter 48 is out on (Pat)reon!
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Just InCommunityForumMoreThe Shattering by wulfenheim Warhammer & Invincible Xover Rated: M, English, Words: 152k+, Favs: 724, Follows: 822, Published: Dec 14, 2023 Updated: Apr 20 223Chapter 47
The disappearance of the Arkifane was more than a mere ripple in the fabric of the cosmos - it was a rupture that should have shattered fate itself. Almost. Yet, fate, being fluid and stubborn, had ways of mending itself. Threads could break, timelines could split, but new strands would always form in the endless weave of possibility. Some events, however, were meant to be immutable, fixed points on the loom of destiny. These were moments that no force could alter: the births and deaths of pivotal figures, the rise and fall of empires, the ascension of beings who would leave an indelible mark on reality. The Arkifane's birth, like a black star upon the fabric of the universe, was one such point.
The Arkifane was supposed to be born. No matter how many battles were won or lost, no matter who tried to thwart the dark prophecy, it was destined to rise. Vashtorr, the Forge God of the Immaterium, was meant to ascend, to rule the Forge of Souls as the master of daemonic invention, the dark artisan behind every soul-bound machine, and the father of the Soul Grinders. In countless timelines, Vashtorr's rise would unleash unimaginable horrors upon the galaxy, a harbinger of devastation that no one, not even the Emperor, could stop. But no longer.
Vashtorr did not exist. The very concept of the Arkifane had been eradicated, wiped from the threads of fate itself. The dark cults that worshipped its future form, once vast and powerful, were scattered to the wind like dust. Without their god, their purpose crumbled into oblivion. They were nothing more than broken whispers, lost to time. The impossible had happened.
And it was all because of a being that should not have existed.
It wore the guise of a human, yet no mortal could possess such overwhelming power. This entity had descended upon the world where Vashtorr was fated to be born, striking down the daemonic forces meant to nurture the Arkifane's emergence. Its strength was beyond reckoning, its presence warping reality itself. Entire fleets of the dreaded Rangdan were crushed beneath its hand, their ships torn apart like paper in a storm. In the original timeline, those same Rangdan would have swept across the planet, sparking the cataclysm that would birth Vashtorr. But this being had intervened, rewriting history with every step it took.
The loom of fate trembled as Vashtorr's thread unraveled. Dozens of fixed points collapsed, hundreds of future branches crumbled, and new paths - unforeseen, untouched - began to bloom. Where once Vashtorr's rise was inevitable, now the future stood uncertain, chaotic, and wild. The ascension of the Dark King, a calamity foretold in ancient visions, was pushed further and further from reality. What had been certain was now unmade.
Eldrad Ulthran, Farseer of Ulthwé, had peered into the threads of fate more times than he could count. He had seen countless outcomes, the rise and fall of great powers, the wars that would sweep across the stars. But now, everything was fractured. The future, once a web he could navigate with precision, had become a tangled mess. Possibilities splintered like shards of glass. And at the center of this chaos was the thing that should not exist—a being that broke the very laws of fate itself.
Eldrad rose from his meditation, his head aching from the strain of searching the shattered timelines. The entity that masqueraded as a human, the being that called itself a parent to the Primarch of all things, was the cause of it all. But what was it?
It was not one of the Yngir, though its nature was closer to those ancient star gods than anything else Eldrad had encountered. Its power surpassed even the oldest of the Necron legends, dwarfing the energy of entire star systems. But the Yngir were bound by their pride, their cold disdain for the mortal races. They would not hide in the flesh of humanity or meddle in the fates of the Imperium and the Warp alike. This creature was different, something new. Something Eldrad could not yet understand.
And now, because of it, every prophecy ever uttered was void. Every vision shattered. Nothing was certain anymore. The future had never been so dangerous, so unknown.
Eldrad sighed, the weight of what had been undone pressing down on him. The galaxy had always teetered on the edge of catastrophe, but now, the balance was gone. The threads of fate dangled loose, ready to be rewoven by any hand that dared reach for them. In that chaos, there was both peril and opportunity. The death of Vashtorr meant that destiny was no longer bound to the dark tide it had once flowed toward. But in the void left behind, something far worse could rise.
And that was what terrified Eldrad the most, because he'd be an utter fool to believe that he was the only one to have seen this. And where there was opportunity, there would be carrion. And now, with the collapse of all the prophesies, the scavengers would be numerous, indeed.
Argall's eyes narrowed.
So, that was definitely not Angron. How... odd. But it was also plain to see, for anyone who really bothered to look, how alike they were in facial features. Jadan noticed first, but said nothing. She, like everyone else, knew that they were up against Argall's blood siblings. It was just... odd, seeing someone who looked so much like himself. And yet, despite that, Argall felt no connection, nothing. He and Syreen looked nothing alike, but she was the only true sibling he'd ever acknowledge. At most, the Primarch on the screen was a relative and nothing more.
Argall crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He would've preferred, outright, if the Supreme Council just followed his commands, the same way Jadan would've preferred, but that would go against the very reason he even established the Supreme Council to begin with, the very reason he designed a democratic government that was ruled by the people, of the people, and for the people, not an autocracy by himself, even if retaking the reins of power would be as simple as speaking into a microphone and declaring himself dictator, once again.
He didn't want that. His people had to be allowed to flourish in their own terms. And he'll just have to be there to catch them and save them whenever they stumbled.
"Greetings," One of the councilors spoke. Argall recognized him as Thanil, one of the newer Councilors who represented the progressives among the Hyperborean Collective, the younger generation of Hyperboreans who were very involved in politics and administration, which – all things considered – honestly brought Argall no small amount of pride. And it was especially heartwarming, considering Thanil had been a part of Jadan's people, which also made it very odd that the boy would be the one to spearhead the diplomatic approach with the Imperium. "I am Thanil and my fellow councils represent the Supreme Council of the Hyperborean Collective. And we represent the will of the Hyperborean Peoples. We wish to engage you, our fellow human beings, in peace talks so that we may set aside our petty differences and work together towards bridging and building a better future."
"Greetings to you, Thanil and your fellows of the Hyperborean Collective; I am Sanguinius, Primarch of the Blood Angels and son of the Emperor of the Imperium of Mankind." The primarch who looked so much like him spoke with a tone of voice so smooth and so cool it was almost like a song. The Supreme Council was almost immediately captured by a few words, before they collectively pulled themselves out of the mental stupors that'd overtaken them. Interesting. More than anything, it reminded Argall of himself, of how he spoke, of how easily he was able to capture crowds and hold the attention of anyone who even listened to him briefly. Its effect, Argall mused, likely was not as profound through a screen and without an actual physical presence, but it was clear nonetheless. That said, decades of exposure to Argall's own voice and words must've granted them something of a resistance, given how they were eventually able to shrug off the effect.
It wasn't just charisma, then, he realized, but something else altogether.
But what?
Sanguinius's eyes very briefly turned to Argall, so quick no one else could've noticed, before turning towards the Supreme Council. Thanil smiled, positively beaming. And, Argall understood where is mirth was coming from. After all, that the Imperium was, in fact, capable of diplomacy was good news for everyone... except maybe the veterans of the war Angron waged against the former Volimar Republic. Argall wouldn't be entirely surprised if the old guard from Jadan's side clamored for war.
"We are pleased to know, then, Sir Sanguinius, that the Imperium is, in fact, willing to parlay to avoid unnecessary bloodshed," Thanil said, much to the approval of his fellow councilors. The young man glanced over his shoulder and turned to Argall. "Those of old Hyperborea know that to shed the blood of your fellow man was the greatest of all sins."
Argall met the boy's eyes and nodded once, smiling. Sanguinius smiled as well. "I agree."
"And so, to prevent said bloodshed, we would like to negotiate for peace," Thanil smiled. And here was the part where things became questionable. Good thing all their ships were primed to make short-range FTL jumps at any given moment. Because Argall was pretty sure the Imperium had another, much larger fleet ready to appear behind them – a trap within a trap. He'd suspected as much when they first appeared in the system. If they didn't have such a trap, ready to be sprung, then their actions, thus far, will not have made any sense and that couldn't possibly be the case as the blonde-haired 'Primarch' before him did not appear to be mentally addled. So, there just had to be a trap. "To better facilitate this diplomatic intercourse. The Hyperborean Collective and, by extension, the Supreme Council is willing and able to treat with the Imperium in person, provided, of course, that we shift the placement of our fleets and ships to be less aggressive – at your convenience, of course."
Sanguinius smiled. "Of course. The Imperium has no wish for bloodshed when diplomacy is on the table, especially when treating with fellow humans. We shall comply with the request of the Hyperborean Supreme Council. But, I would like to know- that man, over there, at the back of the council- what purpose does he serve in your government?"
All eyes turned to him, the entirety of the Supreme Council rearing their heads to look right at him. It was Councilor Valorum, one of the oldest members of the Council, who spoke first. "High Chancellor Argall established this government. In the old days, it was he who led our people out of the darkness and into an age we'd never dreamed of. It was by his hand that the scattered cities were united, by his hand that the first of our wonders were built. And it is by his will that this council now rules the Hyperborean Collective. High Chancellor Argall enjoys the privileged position of Grand Regent, who rules in times of great strife."
Sanguinius's eyes fell for a moment, before he nodded and shrugged. There was some recognition there, Argall noted, or something that was, perhaps, closer to a realization. "And so, it would be best, then, that your Grand Regent accompany the diplomatic exchange, since he is the guardian and protector of your people."
Argall stepped forward. "Worry not, Sanguinius of the Imperium, I would not let the delegates of the Hyperborean Collective be without a protector."
Sanguinius smiled. "Very well, then; in compliance with your earlier demand, we shall be withdrawing, regrouping, and rearranging our ships and fleet. I look forward to meeting and treating with your delegates, Supreme Council of the Hyperborean Collector – and to you as well, brother."
AN: Chapter 49 is out on (Pat)reon!
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Just InCommunityForumMoreThe Shattering by wulfenheim Warhammer & Invincible Xover Rated: M, English, Words: 152k+, Favs: 724, Follows: 822, Published: Dec 14, 2023 Updated: Apr 20 223Chapter 48
"So..." Rogal Dorn began, his deep, measured voice breaking the stunned silence that had fallen over the gathered Primarchs. The shock in his tone was rare, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism, but understandable given the circumstances. The revelation they had just been given changed everything. "They're led by a brother of ours."
The other Primarchs, standing around the massive hololithic map of the star system, wore similar expressions of surprise. Sanguinius knew the feeling all too well; it had been his own reaction when he had first set eyes on Argall. The Grand Regent of the Hyperborean Collective. High Chancellor. Protector.
A Primarch.
One of them.
How long had it been since any of them discovered another of their scattered siblings, lost in the galaxy like pieces of a shattered puzzle? The recognition had sent a surge of emotions through him, equal parts joy and dread, for this revelation complicated everything.
Sanguinius nodded slowly, his expression calm but his mind racing. The implications of this were vast.
"I've confirmed it with my own eyes," he said, turning to address his brothers. "Grand Regent Argall, or High Chancellor, as they call him, is definitely one of us. A Primarch. He did as most of us have done – conquered his world, united its people, and became its defender. The only difference is that Argall has stepped down from power. He no longer rules his empire directly. Instead, he acts as a protector, letting his people govern themselves."
Leman Russ, the Wolf King, barked out a sudden laugh, the sound booming in the chamber.
"Aye! Only a brother of ours could give us such a damned headache!" He slapped Dorn's pauldron with a grin, but Dorn didn't return the enthusiasm, his granite features remaining set in their customary frown. Sanguinius knew that beneath that stern facade, Dorn was calculating, always planning ahead. He would have already considered the strategic advantages and potential pitfalls of this situation.
Dorn's eyes, sharp and analytical, flicked to Sanguinius.
"This brother of ours," Dorn began, his voice deliberate, "makes use of artificial intelligence to direct his fleets. I observed it firsthand."
His tone was as calm as ever, but the statement carried weight. The Imperium had long ago declared artificial intelligence to be heretical, dangerous, and abominable. The Legio Cybernetica used machine-controlled war robots, but those were bound by stringent laws, governed by the Mechanicum's strictures. True, unshackled AI, however, was something else entirely.
Sanguinius nodded in acknowledgment. He had noticed it too. Argall's fleets operated with an efficiency and precision that seemed beyond mere human command, almost unnaturally so. This would be a contentious issue. Dorn's mention of it was a sign of the deeper concerns brewing beneath his calm exterior. None of them had ever encountered the Men of Iron before, but the stories told of them were enough to paint a rather vivid picture, alongside their father's memories of what had transpired in the Cybernetic War and the horrors wrought by the living machines.
Russ, always quick to react, narrowed his eyes but didn't laugh this time.
"I noticed as well," he said, his usual jovial tone subdued. "Argall will learn the dangers of abominable intelligence soon enough, once he sees what it's wrought elsewhere. But for now..."
He shrugged, a grimace crossing his face. "Leniency is needed. If we go in preaching purity and righteousness, or the abhorrence of abominable intelligence, we'll alienate him. We can't afford that, not when he's built an empire that rivals most of our own. We need him, not as an enemy, but as an ally. No war is worth losing a brother."
Sanguinius couldn't help but smile at the Wolf King's uncharacteristically diplomatic stance. It was a rare moment, but it spoke volumes. Leman Russ knew the stakes. They all did. This wasn't just about another system to be brought into the Imperium's fold. This was about one of their own, a Primarch, and that changed everything.
Dorn, ever the strategist, nodded thoughtfully. "His empire is highly advanced. I've seen enough of their technology to know they've achieved things we haven't even imagined yet. But what could we possibly offer him? A ceasefire is the first and most obvious concession, but that alone won't be enough."
Sanguinius and Russ both nodded in agreement. None of them wanted to wage war against a brother, and a ceasefire was a given. But Argall's people had attacked the World Eaters, Angron's legion, an act that could not be easily ignored, regardless of Angron's notorious unreliability when it came to reporting the truth. The attack had sparked this conflict, and now they stood on the edge of a war that no one wanted. But more than that, they now stood on the edge of something far more delicate – the chance to bring another lost brother into the fold.
Sanguinius let his mind drift over the possibilities. What could they offer Argall? His empire was technologically superior, socially progressive, and he had built it on principles so foreign to the Imperium's rigid structure that a direct integration seemed impossible without conflict. Democracy, the rule of the people, was antithetical to everything the Imperium stood for. And yet, here was a Primarch who had chosen that path, and it had worked. Trying to force anything would only lead to tragedy, something that was easily avoided with a little bit of diplomacy.
"We could offer prolonged negotiations," Sanguinius said finally, breaking the silence. His brothers looked at him curiously. "It would give both sides time to observe and learn from each other. Democracies are slow to act, but they can be influenced. If we give Argall's people time, they might begin to see the value of the Imperium, even if it takes longer than usual. We've absorbed other systems with unique forms of government before. It can be done. They just need to understand what we offer."
Dorn's eyes gleamed with thought.
"It will be difficult," he said slowly, "but not impossible. And Argall... if we can convince him to see the Imperium as a force for good, to stand beside us as a Primarch of the Emperor... it would be worth every concession we make. He would be a powerful ally."
Russ grunted in agreement, though his face showed more skepticism. "Aye, but what about Angron? He'll want revenge for the attack on his legion, no matter how justified it was. And what of the abominable intelligence? The Mechanicum won't stand for it."
Sanguinius sighed. These were real concerns, but they had to be addressed delicately.
"Angron can be dealt with," he said firmly. "We just need to tell father to keep them away from each other. If we bring Argall into the fold, we can negotiate restitution. As for the Mechanicum, we'll have to tread carefully. But brothers, this is about more than just one system or one war. This is about family. We've never had to fight a brother, and I don't intend to start now."
The room fell silent again, each Primarch deep in thought. The challenge before them was monumental. Argall was no ordinary warlord, no petty ruler clinging to power. He was a Primarch, like them, but he had chosen a path so different from the one laid out by the Emperor. It would take all of their cunning, patience, and unity to bring him into the Imperium's embrace. And so it became doubly fortunate that Angron was not here to ruin everything.
And yet, Sanguinius knew, deep in his heart, that this was a battle worth fighting. Not with swords or bolters, but with words and wisdom. Because the reward for success was not just another system or another victory. It was the return of a lost brother and that was worth more than any planet. Sanguinius smiled. "We should send a message to the Second Legion. Their Primarch has been found. Argall's sons will want to meet their father. Who knows? Seeing them for himself might just be the means through which we may bring this brother of ours into the fold."
Chancellor Thanil had not been there when Angron descended upon the Old Republic like a storm of blood and iron. In truth, he had been there, but far too young to remember any of it. The devastation, the massacre of his people by the World Eaters, the sight of titanic war machines and howling berserkers tearing through the cities of his ancestors – these were not his memories. They were stories. Stories told around the fire, whispered in the shadows of a recovering world, etched into the collective memory of his people. He had grown up on those stories, haunted by them even as a child, and the deep-seated hatred his people harbored for the Imperium was as much a part of his upbringing as the air he breathed.
And yet, Thanil was different.
While the Old Republic had been devastated and its people marked forever by Angron's brutal invasion, Thanil himself had spent much of his formative years not among the Republic's veterans and survivors, but with the Hyperboreans. These people, once isolated and fiercely independent, had risen to greatness under the guidance of the Grand Regent, Argall. They were advanced, peaceful, and united in a way that the Old Republic had not been. The Hyperboreans abhorred the concept of war – not out of weakness, but out of a deep-seated belief in the value of human life. Their technology was advanced, their society progressive, and their culture infused with a profound respect for reason and dialogue. Where the Imperium glorified conquest and power, the Hyperboreans celebrated wisdom, diplomacy, and the art of peaceful resolution.
At least, among humans. Their view on aliens was on the entirely opposite spectrum, with Hyperborean Doctrine being extermination upon first contact, but that was another matter entirely.
It was among these people that Thanil had spent much of his youth, learning their history, their triumphs, and their defeats. More importantly, he had learned of their greatest leader, the enigmatic and legendary figure known as Argall – a man who had chosen to relinquish the mantle of ruler and act solely as a protector. The Hyperboreans revered him, not as a conqueror or a king, but as a guardian, a father figure who had nurtured their civilization without imposing his will upon it.
For years, he had lived among them, studied their philosophy, and come to believe in their way of life. He had seen firsthand how a society could flourish without the iron hand of oppression or the constant drumbeat of war. He had seen how peace, rather than war, could elevate humanity to heights that even the Imperium had never dreamed of.
But not everyone shared his perspective.
The Honored Lady Jadan, his political superior and mentor, had been there during Angron's invasion. She had fought in the bloody streets, seen her loved ones butchered, and witnessed the horrors that the World Eaters had unleashed upon their people. For her, the Imperium was not a distant, abstract entity – it was a living nightmare. The name "Imperium" was a synonym for tyranny, bloodshed, and destruction. Lady Jadan had seen the very worst of it, and her deep-seated distrust of the Imperium was woven into her very being. She stood among and represented the old ones, the honored elders who were responsible for saving what little was left of their republic and sailing out into the void.
Thanil understood her stance. How could he not? She had lived through the horrors that he had only heard about. She had felt the fear, the anger, the helplessness of watching her world burn under the heel of Angron's legion. For Jadan, no amount of diplomacy or negotiation could wash away the blood that had been spilled. Her scars, both physical and emotional, ran too deep. To her, the Imperium was irredeemable, and the thought of any kind of peace with them was anathema.
And yet, something had to change. His people, despite their strength and resilience, had been living in the shadow of that war for too long. The hatred they harbored was not just a burden, but a chain that held them back, a shackle that prevented them from moving forward into a future that did not revolve around fear of the Imperium. The Hyperboreans had shown him that humanity could achieve so much more when it let go of its past and embraced a future built on cooperation rather than conflict.
It was these very same thoughts that passed through Thanil's mind as he reached out his hand to a very tall, blonde, armored, winged man with a presence that was almost as overwhelming as High Chancellor Argall's. Sanguinius smiled back and reached out. They shook hands. The angel smiled. "Greetings. You must be Councilor Thanil. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. And, on behalf of the Imperium and all its subjects, I offer my sincerest apologies to any damages you may have incurred on our behalf."
"And, on behalf of the Hyperborean Collective, we offer you our apologies."
And, in that moment, Thanil allowed himself to dream that peace might not just be a dream.
AN: Chapter 50 is out on (Pat)reon!
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Just InCommunityForumMoreThe Shattering by wulfenheim Warhammer & Invincible Xover Rated: M, English, Words: 152k+, Favs: 724, Follows: 822, Published: Dec 14, 2023 Updated: Apr 20 223Chapter 49
Sanguinius immediately took note of the Hyperborean delegation the moment they entered the room. His sharp, golden eyes narrowed in the slightest, scanning each figure carefully. It didn't take long for him to recognize something unusual, something remarkable.
They were enhanced – physically, at least – on par with an Astartes, or close enough that the tiny differences no longer mattered.
The first thing that struck him was their height. The shortest among them stood at least seven feet tall, towering over most humans. Their physical build was impressive, too. Each of them had the broad shoulders and powerful musculature characteristic of his Space Marines. Yet, they were not as bulky, possessing a leaner, more graceful frame. These were civilians, not warriors, and their bodies reflected a balance of strength and elegance rather than the hardened bulk of soldiers trained for war. One of them, in fact, was clearly more fond of food than his fellows.
It was startling to Sanguinius. Civilians, with no formal military training or inclination for combat, displayed a physical prowess – or the potential for it - almost indistinguishable from the members of the Legionnes Astartes. They moved with fluidity, their steps measured, their posture straight – inhuman movements, but otherwise graceful and beautiful. But there was something else about them – something more human.
Their eyes lacked the cold, battle-worn hardness of his sons, and their faces carried none of the scars that came with centuries of warfare. They were vibrant, alive with intelligence and curiosity, and their features, while enhanced, were still unmistakably those of ordinary men and women.
Interesting, Sanguinius thought, his mind racing through the possibilities. Were these Hyperboreans born like this? Or were they genetically altered in some way? And if so, how?
His thoughts immediately turned to his brother, Argall. If these people had been enhanced, it was almost certain that Argall had played a role in the process. But how had he managed it? Unlike other civilizations that tampered with human biology, there were no visible signs of deformities or mutations among the Hyperboreans. No elongated limbs or unnatural growths. No twisted features or signs of psychic instability. Instead, they were a picture of genetic perfection – an ideal form of humanity. Or, at least, Sanguinius' ideal form of what humans were supposed to be.
Strong, powerful, imposing, but beautiful.
Sanguinius marveled at them. If Argall had indeed perfected a method of genetic enhancement that produced such flawless results, it could be invaluable. His thoughts turned, as they often did, to his own legion. The Blood Angels were suffering, plagued by a ravenous thirst for blood, a genetic flaw that haunted their ranks and threatened to undo them, something he'd hidden from the knowledge of all other legions, kept secret from even his brothers. If Argall's techniques could be studied, understood, and applied, it might be possible to cure his sons of their affliction.
The thought filled Sanguinius with a quiet hope. He'd long since struggled to find a cure, a means of fixing his sons, to hide the shame of his Gene-seed and to cure it forever.
But the questions remained. If these Hyperboreans were simply born like this, what would happen if they were further enhanced with Astartes augmentations? Would they become even more powerful? And if they had already been altered, how had Argall achieved such a transformation without the usual complications when not even the Emperor and his greatest Geneticists were unable to do so? Did he uncover some awesome device from before the Age of Strife?
The longer Sanguinius observed the delegation, the more fascinated he became. Their very existence raised so many questions – questions that could hold the key to unlocking the future of humanity. But before he could dive into the answers, there was a pressing matter at hand: how to approach this delicate moment.
For now, he would observe, listen, and learn.
There was no telling what genetic secrets his brother, Argall, might have uncovered, but Sanguinius knew one thing for certain: these Hyperboreans were not to be underestimated. They were more than just citizens of an advanced civilization. They represented something far greater – something that could potentially change the course of everything. That was, of course, assuming these delicate negotiations went well and that Argall and his Hyperborean Collective would somehow agree to peacefully integrate into the Imperium.
Fulgrim would be better suited for this, Sanguinius thought to himself. Fulgrim always excelled at diplomacy. Horus too.
Their silver tongues could likely charm the Hyperborean leadership, ease their concerns, and broker peace. But here, Sanguinius had to tread carefully, relying on his own diplomacy skills to navigate this unprecedented situation.
The key would be to agree with most of what the Hyperboreans asked for—within reason. The only thing that truly mattered to the Imperium, after all, was Argall himself. A brother, a fellow Primarch. That was the primary concern. In the Imperium's eyes, Primarchs always mattered more than the worlds they ruled. That was the standard. But here, that norm no longer applied. These Hyperboreans were no ordinary humans. They were far above the baseline of humanity, and that fact alone shifted everything.
Sanguinius couldn't ignore what he had seen. The idea of an entire population of baseline humans enhanced to the level of Astartes was almost inconceivable, yet here they stood. An entire world of people who, by their very nature, rivaled his Space Marines in physical strength and stature. The possibilities this raised were as extraordinary as they were terrifying. The thought of superhuman legions of Imperial soldiers, drawn from the Hyperborean homeworld, crossed his mind. A single baseline human soldier, equal in ability to an Astartes... The idea was both amazing and horrifying.
It was precisely this – Argall's people, not just Argall himself – that made this situation so critical. A Primarch was valuable, undeniably. But an entire civilization of humans with the potential to rival Astartes? That was a game-changer. Argall's homeworld, wherever it lay, was not something that could be ignored or taken lightly. The Imperium would have to handle this delicately.
Sanguinius knew that meant he was negotiating from a position of weakness. The Hyperboreans wanted peace, but convincing them to join the Imperium? That was going to be far more difficult. They maintained a democratic government, a stark contrast to the Imperium's autocratic rule. It was clear that their values and ideals did not align with the Imperium's rigid hierarchy. The challenge, therefore, was to somehow talk them into joining without alienating them completely.
There was, of course, the worst-case scenario – an all-out war. Sanguinius could already imagine how it would unfold. The Hyperboreans, with their technological advancements and superhuman population, would put up a fierce fight. But the Imperium, with its overwhelming numbers and logistical superiority, would eventually crush them. It was not a matter of if, but of when. The Hyperboreans' little empire would be flattened beneath the boots of Imperial soldiers, just as so many other civilizations had fallen before them.
But it would be a costly war. Sanguinius knew that. The Hyperboreans would inflict heavy damage, perhaps enough to cripple the Imperium for a thousand years to come. In an all-out conflict, hundreds of thousands of Astartes could fall and entire legions would be devastated. Billions of Imperial soldiers would die in the meat-grinder of war. It would be a bloodbath like no other. And yet, despite the heavy losses, the outcome was inevitable. The Imperium would win. It always did.
But victory at such a price wasn't something Sanguinius wanted to contemplate.
That wasn't the outcome anyone desired. No, the real challenge lay in preventing that war from ever happening. Convincing the Hyperboreans to join peacefully, to find common ground, was the only way to avoid the unimaginable destruction that would follow otherwise.
Sanguinius steeled himself. The weight of this negotiation bore heavily on him, but he would not falter. He had to find a way to make this work, to bring Argall and his people into the fold of the Imperium without losing what made them so unique, so valuable. He had to succeed – for his brother, for his legion, and for the future of humanity itself.
Those were the thoughts that flickered through Sanguinius' mind as he sat down across the Hyperborean Delegates. They hadn't sent their full council. There were a lot more of them from the brief peek he'd taken of them during that ceasefire exchange, but there were only six delegates – four councilors, an elderly woman in some kind of hover-device, and Argall himself. He didn't recognize the old human. She hadn't been with the council, but she was clearly a figure of great importance among the Hyperboreans, important enough to be sent as a delegate. Unlike the rest of them, however, the elderly woman clearly was just... normal. Or, perhaps, she was simply so old that her natural physical gifts had withered away into nothing, leaving behind a sharp and clear mind in a decrepit body. Sanguinius couldn't imagine such a fate.
"As you may know, I am Thanil, a councilor of the Hyperborean Supreme Council," Thanil introduced himself first. This one, Sanguinius mused, liked speaking and was passionate about it. Thanil then stepped back and held out his hand towards the other delegates, likely to introduce them. "And these are my fellow councilors; Councilor Valorum, Councilor Shar, and Councilor Thingol. And these are our honored delegates; Grand Regent, High Chancellor, and Lord Protector Argall and his sister Syreen, Keeper of Ancient Knowledge and the last of Elders."
Sanguinius turned to the old woman. Sister. She must've been a part of the family who found and raised Argall. That was nice. Sanguinius almost smiled. Only a few of his brothers had the privilege and the blessing to be found by a loving and caring family. And, from the way Argall looked upon the elderly woman, he had been loved and cared for. It also meant that the Hyperborean Homeworld probably wouldn't be classified as a Death World. Syreen, Argall's sister, was known as a Keeper of Ancient Knowledge and the last of the Elders, titles were attributed to her old age, which made Sanguinius wonder just how old she truly was, which also brought him back to his earlier question of whether or not the Hyperboreans were born as they were now or if they were enhanced. If it was the former, then Syreen had to be many hundreds if not thousands of years old. If it was the latter, then she may simply have been one of the few to refuse augmentation, which was an odd choice, but nothing Sanguinius had never seen before.
Sanguinius smiled. As agreed, there were no armed guards around them. The meeting itself was held on one of the nearby asteroids, broadcasted to every ship in every fleet for all to witness. Sanguinius had briefly contemplated bringing Dorn and Rus along, but ultimately decided against it; neither of them were any good at diplomacy. The irony being that Dorn was actually a worse choice, compared to Rus, who was also bad at it. So, it was just him. A few of his captains advised against him coming alone, but Sanguinius saw no need for an honor guard. The Hyperboreans sued for peace when they could've continued fighting, there was no reason to believe they'd try anything funny.
He locked eyes with Argall for a moment.
And, in that brief passage of time, Sanguinius caught a glimpse of... something that may yet come to pass.
Argall standing tall, eyes glowing a baleful emerald green. Around him marched legions of skeletal machines, each of them bearing the same eyes as Argall himself. There were humans too, Hyperboreans... but... they were... changed, merged with living machines to create misshapen pariahs. A deathless army. Standing by Argall's side was a King, young, but ancient, bones of metal and green fire. And thousands upon thousands of worlds falling and burning as they marched.
Sanguinius blinked. What did that even mean?
"And I am Sanguinius," He introduced himself again for the sake of formalities. "Primarch of the Blood Angels and son of the Emperor of Mankind. Shall we begin our negotiations?"
Thanil smiled. "We shall."
Before they could even begin, however, alarms began blaring. Sanguinius's eyes widened as another fleet entered the system. Oh no - not now!
The World Eaters were here.
AN: Chapter 51 is out on (Pat)reon!
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Just InCommunityForumMoreThe Shattering by wulfenheim Warhammer & Invincible Xover Rated: M, English, Words: 152k+, Favs: 724, Follows: 822, Published: Dec 14, 2023 Updated: Apr 20 223Chapter 50
"You were following me," Thragg said, his voice low and measured, each word weighted with the threat of violence. His large hands were wrapped around the frail neck of a humanoid creature, its limbs twitching feebly in his grasp. The creature's features were obscured by a grotesque mask that appeared to be laughing. Despite its apparent fragility, the being had been part of a larger force that had ambushed him in deep space. It was still a mystery how they had managed to track him down, especially in the middle of nowhere. But they had.
He glanced at the creature again – taller than most humans, with an almost willowy physique, its limbs long and angular, more suited to a creature of grace and speed than of brute strength. The most striking feature, however, were its pointed ears, peeking out from beneath the mask, lending it an otherworldly quality. It reminded him of certain myths he'd heard whispered among the more primitive planets he had conquered. They moved fast, these beings – far faster than any normal human. In fact, they were almost as fast as Argall.
Almost.
But 'almost' wasn't nearly enough.
Not enough to stop him.
Thragg's eyes narrowed. His curiosity had been piqued when their weapons managed to sting his skin. That was something. Few things in this universe could hurt him, and these creatures had, if only slightly. It was an odd sensation, one that stirred something deeper within him. But it had been nothing more than an irritation – an interesting one, but an irritation all the same.
Nashara, the ancient Reaper bound to him, remained eerily silent. Thragg could feel its presence, a dark whisper at the edge of his mind, but even the Reaper had no answers. This was unusual. Nashara had witnessed countless species, countless wars, and yet, this alien was unfamiliar to it. The Reaper's curiosity mirrored Thragg's own, though it refused to voice its thoughts aloud.
"You attacked me. Why?" Thragg's grip tightened, just enough to elicit a strangled gasp from the creature, whose body shuddered under the pressure.
The scene replayed in his mind: their ships – sleek, avian-like in appearance – swooping down on him out of nowhere, their lasers slicing through the void with alarming precision. Thragg had been drifting through space, alone, lost in his thoughts, speeding towards the direction of the home he'd not seen in quite a while, when they appeared. Dozens of them, swarming like insects. It had been a pathetic attempt. Their vessels were fragile things, easily breached by his fists and shattered by the raw force of his power. Their speed didn't afford them anything. One by one, their ships crumbled, and in the ensuing chaos, many of the crew were sucked into the endless, unforgiving expanse of space.
He could have saved them. He thought about it, even. But why bother? They were strangers to him, their faces unknown, their motives unclear. And they had attacked first. He wasn't so merciful as to waste his time rescuing those who sought to kill him. No, this one – the one still squirming in his grasp – was lucky enough to survive, and only because he had stumbled across a living planet not far from the battle. Luck or fate, it didn't matter.
It had taken him less than an hour to fly there, the broken creature stuffed into a box he'd found floating among the wreckage. Now, at the planet's highest peak, the winds whipping around them, he pried the lid open and dragged the survivor out, wrapping his fingers around its throat.
He stared at the masked face, the creature's shallow, rasping breaths echoing in the thin atmosphere. It tried to speak, but the words came out as incoherent gasps, the mask muffling any sound it attempted to make. Thragg loosened his grip slightly, allowing it the barest chance to breathe.
"Talk," he growled, his tone promising death if it did not comply. The alien was fragile. He could break its neck entirely accidentally if he sneezed. But then that was true for everything that existed around him. It was true for all Viltrumites. It was a matter of control – of restraint, something Thragg had plenty of, thanks to his time spent with humans, with his wife and family. Sneezing, however, was a good way to lose quite a lot of that control.
The creature coughed, its thin, elongated fingers clawing weakly at Thragg's hand. It did not speak. Instead, it grabbed a black knife and tried to stab him with it. Instead of doing anything, the knife shattered like glass against his skin. Thragg raised a brow as the alien stared at the remains of its knife – just the handle, really. Thragg almost wanted to laugh. His eyes narrowed. "Are you going to try anything else or are you going to talk now? Because I'm running out of patience – and time."
Thragg of Viltrum. Nashara suddenly spoke. This creature won't speak; its will is strong. Allow me to rip its memories from its mind so that we may examine it.
Thragg raised a brow, but otherwise agreed. He didn't want to waste another moment on this nameless planet. "Very well."
Nashara wasn't physically present. Its prison was absolute, built to be indestructible by its makers. But its essence was with him and within him at all times, like an infinite bridge. And the Reaper's essence, though far weaker than its physical form, was still the essence of a god and, thusly, held incredible powers, such as its power to share knowledge in the form of a 'Mind Palace' that Thragg could access by focusing, or – in this case – ripping memories right out of a living creature's mind. Translucent tendrils of energy emerged from Thragg's head, surging forward, through, and into the alien's head.
The humanoid alien stiffened and shook, dropping the handle of its knife as its limbs stiffened and then relaxed and then stiffened again. Through their mental link, Thragg understood that Nashara, in that moment, was breaking down the alien's mind into raw data, something that could be processed within his true form and then spat back out as tangible information. That, Thragg mused, was... interesting, the ability to turn physical things into raw data.
After a moment, the translucent tendrils receded and the creature went limp. Dead. Thragg tossed its corpse down the mountain. It'd take some moments before Nashara could process the raw data into tangible, usable information. And so, Thragg surged upwards, faster than light itself, burning up the planet's atmosphere as he exited, leaving a trail of fire and destruction. As soon as he reached deep space once more, Nashara spoke, They were sent to destroy you.
"Yes, I know, but why?" Thragg asked.
Their master calls itself the Laughing God. It sees you as a threat to its plans. Why, this alien did not know. Its memories hold nothing more of value. Nashara said simply, its presence disappearing into the back of Thragg's mind immediately afterwards.
Thragg's eyes narrowed, but then, after a moment, he shrugged. Something that called itself the Laughing God would not be the first nor the last entity that wanted his head. There were likely trillions of others, each of them driven by hatred, driven by anger, by revenge against him for all the crimes he'd committed in the ancient days. Just another enemy. Not even a particularly powerful one at that if it couldn't be bothered to try and kill him, sending odd assassins in its place. Cowardice. At least the Rangdan God had enough of its dignity left to fight him on equal ground, compared to this Laughing God.
"Such a being is of no consequence to me," Thragg shrugged, surging across the darkness of space faster than light itself. His home was getting closer and closer with every passing moment. Soon, he'd be able see his son and – just maybe – his daughter once again. The thought of meeting his grandchildren brought a smile to Thragg's lips. He'd never cared much for his offspring before – not at all, really. Argall and Syreen were different. He loved them, even when – ironically – neither were of his blood, his lineage.
Still, Thragg mused, he didn't remember destroying or conquering any world as of late. Why would this Laughing God suddenly become his enemy? Odd.
He'd even made sure not to step on anyone's toes, to keep the peace he'd found.
It seemed, however, like he wasn't very good at maintaining his peace if new enemies kept popping up, no matter what he did.
You're off-course, Thragg of Viltrum; turn 4.5 degrees to your left.
"Ah," Thragg muttered. "Thanks."
Nareena twirled the blood-red axe in her grasp and frowned as she leaned back against her 'throne'. She'd long since figured and accepted that she couldn't just up and leave this place whenever or however she wanted to. There were rules, but she still wasn't sure what those rules were. This realm wasn't too bad if she was being honest. In fact, she kind of liked this place. Sure, it could use a new aesthetic since the fire, blood, skulls, and more blood got really old really fast, but there was no denying the joy that came from combat.
But, once again, Nareena could not deny the fact that fighting the daemons again and again kind of got old. The small ones were not even challenging anymore. It was the tall ones with wings who were fun to fight against, but she usually won. If she lost and died, then she'd just wake up on her throne, ready to start the day and kick some ass. It got repetitive after a while. There wasn't even a way to tell the time. There was no night and day, since the sky was the same crimson fucking blood red whenever she looked up.
She was apparently a Daemon Prince now – no longer human, no longer a physical entity. She was a Valkyrie, apparently, meant to judge those who wished to become champions of Khorne. Unfortunately, there were no candidates at the moment. At the very least, Nareena figured out how to control her own appearance, which was how she currently wasn't in her 'true' form and was just herself – as she remembered, at least. She didn't need to eat, sleep, or even drink now. The whole of her existence appeared to be devoted entirely to just fighting. And that was boring. Fighting was fun, but so was sleeping, drinking, cooking, and going on adventures.
Didn't anyone else around here have any other hobbies?
The answer was no. They did not have other hobbies. All they did was fight and fight and fight.
Why the hell was she even stuck here?
Nareena groaned and sighed, leaning back. An infernal, crimson armor coated her entire body, save for her head. She made it herself, using parts from the armors of all the daemons she'd defeated until she had just enough to cover herself with all of them. The axe came from the big man himself, Khorne, who kind of just it at her one day. Nareena didn't complain. A weapon made it so much easier to kill things.
But, she was bored out of her mind. She missed her kids. She missed her husband. She missed her garden. She missed digging through the Scrapyards, looking for interesting things. She missed looking up at an actual blue sky and not the menacing menstruation that was the sky here.
Scowling, Nareena stood up and kicked a nearby skull, shattering it. A Bloodletter came out of... somewhere, charging right at her. Sighing, Nareena pivoted, grabbed the Bloodletter by the horns and then hurled the little daemon into the sky. She really just wasn't in the mood. And then, something tugged at her – a metaphysical thing that called to her from beyond this realm. Shrugging, Nareena reached for that tug and found... something that shook her to her core.
And then, she smiled, and burning, blood red tears streamed from her eyes. "So that's what my kids have been up to?"
AN: Chapter 52 is out on (Pat)reon!
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